Need
by LiquidLash
Summary: Jack Harkness's past becomes his present as he struggles to come to terms with his present becoming his past.
1. Alone and Palely Loitering

**Author note: **Much praise and love to Galadriel1010 who can actually come up with summaries, huzzah! I've never written that much in first person, in fact I try to avoid it, so I hope this is all alright and makes sense yada-yada... Please read, tell me what you think, I'd love to hear your opinions. Oh, and this is set post Children of Earth, by the way.

**Disclaimer:** All chapter titles taken from John Keats's wonderful poem _La Belle Dame Sans Merci_. Torchwood belongs to Russell T Davies and the BBC.

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**Chapter One: Alone and Palely Loitering**

Like being hauled over broken glass, I once said. Being dragged back into existence when all I crave is oblivion.

Broken glass would be a relief. I would _love_ to experience that instead of this... this _agony_. Because it doesn't get any better: there is no 'becoming accustomed' to it. Each death is worse than the previous, and I just want it to stop.

Please.

I've had enough, I've just had enough.

***

"You've had enough," the familiar voice chided. "Come on now, Jack, the bottle won't solve your problems."

"Rehab teach you that?" I slurred.

"Common sense." John Hart slid his arms around my waist, hoisting me from the bar stool. "It may surprise you to know that I possess some."

I blinked, attempting to focus. "I'm gonna punch one of you in a moment, just so you know."

"Fine, fine," John said, not really listening.

"Then I'm gonna throw up on the other, okay?"

John let go of me and I collapsed, hitting the dirty bar floor and giggling giddily. I didn't care where I was, or what planet I was on. The floor felt nice and cool. The floor _understood_.

"Good god, Harkness, what's happened to you?"

***

I watch him and I hate it. How can he be doing this to himself? He'd said all those wonderful things about the universe and now he's just wallowing in self pity.

I _loathe_ it, and yet still love him.

Only him.

***

I stared at the two-up two-down detached house. However many times I shook my head, the building was still there.

Flowers grew under the window frames. I blinked again. No way, I told himself. No way can he be living _here_...

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Permission to say 'what the hell'?"

"Granted."

I gave the house another once over, noting with some horror the ivy growing along the side. It looked so _quaint_. "What the hell?"

John joined me by the garden gate. "Don't knock my house, if you please."

His house. An actual _house_. "Who are you and what have you done with Captain John Bite-Me Hart?"

"Oh," John said giving me a sly look as he opened the gate and gestured down the short path. "I think he's still around here somewhere."

"You bought a house. With flowers."

"I bought a house, yes!" John pranced over the gravel. "And don't you like the flowers?"

"I couldn't care less about the flowers. Get me a bucket."

"What? Why—"

My stomach chose that exact moment to roil and I threw up over his precious flowers, collapsing onto all fours on the grass.

"Right," John said, unlocking the door with his wrist strap. "Mental note, when the man asks for a bucket, get him a bucket." Twenty seconds later he reappeared with a large plastic bowl and looked down at me, aghast. "Why, Jack? Of all things, you _had_ to hit my rhododendron, didn't you?!"

Screw his precious rhododendron. "Bed. Now. Wanna sleep."

"Come on then, Captain Cave-head." John put his arms under my shoulders and dragged me, with some difficulty, inside.

Maybe if I was lucky I'd die before morning.

***

Why does everyone have to die? I wish just one of them would stay, I really do.

But they can't handle it, being around me. It sends them all mad after a time. Some of them get out, some of them leave me.

They're the smart ones.

The people that stay are the people I hurt, they're the ones I ultimately kill in one way, shape or form.

In the end, everyone dies but me.

I feel like Death.

***

"Rise and shine, sleepy!"

I couldn't help it, it was an automatic reaction. My hand flew to the gun holster at my right hip, discovered it to be empty and sent an urgent warning message to my brain. I sat bolt upright.

"Looking for this?"

I glared at John and the Webley dangling from his fingers. "Gimme."

"And what, might I ask, happened to Mister Manners?"

"He got shot for not giving me my gun," I said. John grinned, throwing it to me. I caught it just before the barrel hit my forehead and gave him another glare. "You didn't turn the safety on, did you?"

Sweetly, John said, "Nope."

I stared at the weapon in my hands, reliving past memories.

***

It's never good when he starts looking at the gun. Sometimes I stop and wonder just how many heads he's held it against.

I can still feel it pressed against mine... but I forgave him that, I forgave him a long time ago, even if he never knew.

So I can forgive him the grief he's feeling now...

Can't I?

***

"Jack, I know you're hurting, won't you just tell me?"

I glanced up from the book I was trying and failing to read. "Since when did you get so lovey-dovey?"

John's serious, and concerned, expression did not waver. I gulped, not wanting to go through with this. Living under John's roof for the past few days had been a sort of heaven, like revisiting the past – nice for a holiday but you wouldn't want to stay there.

"You never did say what you were doing so far from that little team of yours," John observed.

_This_ was one of the reasons I was so eager to leave, eager and itching to be away from anyone and anywhere that would try to get inside my head and make me remember. Through alcohol and determined non-thinking I had shoved the memory of _him_ into the deepest recesses of my mind, and no old acquaintance feigning a show of compassion and concern would make me give Ianto Jones up. No. It wasn't working. It wasn't.

Damn him.

I started to say something that I hoped would have been witty, but my breath caught in my throat and the air whooshed from my lungs in a choked sob.

John was by my side in an instant: that just made it worse.

"Want to talk about it?"

Mute, I shook my head, dumbfounded by the tears that stained my cheeks and the care that John showed.

***

When you tell yourself that you've survived worse, it's never a comfort. Nor is saying it's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.

Who would chose this?

Do _any_ of us have a choice, or are we fated to suffer under love's cruel grip?

I wish I could have chosen.

***

"Jack, put the gun down," John's voice drifted across the living room (I was still in shock that he _had_ a living room, although the 3D television was most definitely a plus) and I scowled without looking around. "Come on, Jack, no need to be hasty..."

"You know I can't die," I said around the barrel of my gun. "What's the problem?"

I just about heard John mutter, "Obviously _you've_ never had to get blood stains out of leather," before pulling the trigger.

Blessed, blessed darkness. The relief before the pain.

And then, a voice.

"It must be really bad, for you to prefer this."

I'd like to say I turned around but how can you turn when you have no body, when you barely have a mind, when all you are is... you?

I knew that voice.

A whisper kiss brushed my non-cheek and, as I felt life begin to drag me back, I heard him say, "Be safe, cariad."

I woke up gasping Ianto's name.


	2. A Faery's Song

**Author note:** I just about burst into tears writing this, just so you know.

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**Chapter Two: A Faery's Song**

Like being hauled over broken glass, he'd once said. To be dragged back into life over and over when all he wants is some small respite.

I don't know why I did it. I've just made things worse, haven't I?

I hope I haven't: he's having such a hard time of it already. I only wanted to have some _connection_, is that so wrong?

It is. He's hurting. Of course it's wrong.

***

I woke up the next morning with a banging headache. Immortal but not invulnerable, I staggered to the bathroom with its high-to-do sonic shower and groped for wherever John might have left the painkillers.

Upon opening the medicine cabinet and discovering the row of alcohol and spirits, I decided nothing much had changed: John was still John.

But I wasn't the same Jack, not anymore.

"They say you're not supposed to talk to the dead, don't they?" I whispered at my reflection. I'd dreamed about Ianto the night before. Safe within my arms, he had laughed and cried, smiled and sighed. Safe within my arms he'd been the Ianto I strived to hold on to. "I don't know if you can hear me, Yan. I've never heard of anyone coming back to life and carrying on the conversation, bar me, of course, but it feels better to talk." I heaved a sigh. "Well, maybe not better; slightly less worse, if that even makes sense."

The front door slammed and I felt its vibrations run through the building.

"Jack, I've told you, your reflection won't reply," John commented, walking past the bathroom with a couple of full shopping bags. What's happened to him? I turn my back for five minutes (or years) and he goes domestic!

"John... what's with the..." I waved my arms around, gesturing to the quaintness of it all. "This?"

"I can't try for a bit of retro?"

"Retro is retro, but gingham is..." I shuddered. "Why are you doing this?"

He walked away from me then, disappearing into the living room and slouching across one of the large sofas. I followed, of course. I'd always followed where he lead, whether I liked it or not. I looked down at him. "Why do you suddenly care?"

He fixed me with a sullen expression. "Oh, I like that. 'Suddenly care'." He wiggled his fingers in the air, quoting the words. "As if I haven't cared for you all along." John turned his face away, glaring at the 3D screen. "It's great how much you think of me, it really is."

I moved around the sofa, kneeling before his twisted lips. "John," I began, but he cut me off.

"You're a mess, Jack," he said. "I see it and I hate it! You _can't_ be the mess, you're meant to be the strong one..."

I started at him.

"We both know I'm the bitchy whining one, you can't just turn the tables now."

My face fell. By my own internal pain I was hurting others. _Selfish_. Always so selfish. I take what I want and think nothing of the consequences.

"Oh, don't start that again," John griped.

"Start what again?" I asked, jerking out of my reverie.

"That." He pointed at my face, nearly knocking one of my eyeballs out in the process. "Don't think I can't tell. Five years, Jack, I know _exactly_ when you're tearing yourself up on the inside."

"Go head butt an asteroid, John." I crossed my arms, sulking on the carpet. I hate it when he gets inside my head!

"If I wanted to see stars, baby, I'd look into your eyes."

I made a retching noise. John chuckled.

The silence between us ebbed and flowed as we avoided each other's gazes, not willing to be the first to speak.

I took a breath. This was my fault after all. "I miss him," I whispered.

"Eye-candy?" John prompted.

Okay, so I gaped at him. But I'd never told him about Ianto, I'd never explained how I'd managed to lose the one person—

"I guessed, Jack. It's not that hard."

"Isn't it?"

John snorted. "I bet you wouldn't be this hard up if it were _me_ dead, eh?"

I opened my mouth to protest and thought better of it. John could spot one of my lies a mile off; he would appreciate my honesty now, for all it was worth.

***

I keep myself to myself, mostly. It's hard to completely let go with someone you know will leave you in the end, even if they don't want to. It's one of the reasons I found Ianto's death so unfair. I'd just been dealt a good hand; someone I could _trust_ and open my heart to...

...but fate, as ever, had other plans. Even if I want to, I can't move on now, not with Ianto's ghost at every turn.

It's hard to let go.

***

"Get up off your arse and stop moping, we're going out."

I didn't open my eyes at John's arrival. He started to tap his foot, I could hear the insistent pad of rubber on carpet and I smirked.

"I mean it," John said, "get up. Go have a shave or whatever it is you do to get ready for a night on the town."

"What town?" I asked with scepticism. "This city, this entire _planet_, is as flat as your hair."

"My hair is not flat!" John's hand flew to his head and he dove for the nearest mirror. Glaring at his reflection and picking at his 'do', he said, "Anyway. We're not going to anywhere on _this_ planet, smart arse. We'll just be hopping a few systems, I contacted a few friends, wangled us a lift there and back."

"John, I'm not in the mood."

"And you won't ever be is all you do is sit and mope!"

"I'm not moping!" I protested. "I'm just being... thoughtful."

"So, moping, then?"

"Shut up, John. I told you, not in the mood."

He wedged himself onto the armchair, pushing my against the side. Stuck, I glared at him. Stuck, he grinned at me. Then his hand appeared on my knee. I looked at it pointedly.

"Bet I could get you in the mood," he murmured.

"Oh god," I said weakly, trying not to roll my eyes. "John, stop."

***

He should move on, right? I shouldn't watch him and feel jealous, even though I know I have no claim, not anymore.

Other hands touch where my fingers once brushed, and I feel... what _do_ I feel? Can I even feel, in this state?

Do I even exist? Or am I a dreamed echo, trying to cling to life.

Jack...

***

My head whipped round. Someone had said my name, I was sure, and somehow I'd heard it through the blaring music and epileptic lights. Kind of impossible though, since I couldn't have heard the person next to me shout even if they'd tried.

They had, actually. I'd taken it as compliment and they'd left unsatisfied. I _had_ warned John; not in the mood meant not in the mood. I just wasn't feeling that 'party vibe'.

I remember the last person I'd danced with... not the wedding, no. Sometime after that, when we'd been all alone and I had waltzed with him to the tune in my head while he giggled and laughed and attempted to protest.

I could almost feel the ghost of him in my arms now...

"_Jack._"

"Ianto?" I whispered, daring myself not to hope or panic, either could be disastrous. "Is that you?"

I felt John's hand on my shoulder. I knew it was his hand; I'd been expecting someone else's. "Jack?" he near shouted.

"Can we leave?" I near begged in return. "Please."

He caught my expression. "Yeah, sure, of course. Come on, let's get your coat."

"Leave it," I said, surprising myself. "It doesn't matter. I want out."

John stared at me, trying to understand, and said, "Okay." He didn't argue. I was grateful for that.

"_Goodbye, Jack_," the voice of the past echoed. My breathing hitched and I fled, searching blindly for the exit.

"Jack!" John shouted after me.

"_Jack..._"


	3. Anguish Moist and Fever Dew

**Author note:** Thanks so much to everyone who's reviewed/favourited/put this on their alerts/put _me_ on their alerts: I'll make sure you get cookies in the afterlife!

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**Chapter Three: Anguish Moist and Fever Dew**

Is this what madness feels like?

***

I looked at my reflection, willing the deep sense of peace I'd found yesterday to return.

Nothing. Nada. Zip.

John popped up behind me, fixing me with a questioning stare. "It's still there, you know," he said. "You haven't become a vampire overnight. You don't need to keep checking."

"Shut up, John."

"No."

"Go away, then?"

"Shan't."

"Could you at least stop preening over my shoulder?"

John paused with a short length of his hair entwined around one finger. "I am preening, aren't I?"

"Yes."

"Hmm," he said, his hand falling instead on my shoulder. I stared at it, wishing once again it belonged to someone else. He sighed. "Jack. We need to talk—"

"No we don't!" I tried to move away, get out of the bathroom, but his grip on my shoulder increased and he kicked the door shut. The sound of the lock echoed in the small room.

"We need to talk about last night," John repeated, "and you know we do."

"But we don't," I almost wailed. I didn't want to go through this again! How many times did I have to bare my heart for this guy? John's other hand appeared on my shoulder and he steered me to sit on the toilet while he chose the edge of the bath to perch. Then he looked at me. Just looked.

Goddamn him!

"I heard Ianto," I told my knees. "Last night, in the club. Clear as anything. He said my name."

"Okay."

I looked up at him then. "What?"

"I said okay. I believe you."

Nothing in his eyes but acceptance, what was going on? "Really?"

"Stranger things have happened, Jackie." He shrugged. I gaped. He hadn't called me Jackie in years...

***

I never won that right. He had his names for me, but I could never dream to call him something other than what he was, if Jack Harkness was even his real name. Which it wasn't. So who cares, right?

It shouldn't bother me. I have no claim on him!

Not anymore, at least.

It shouldn't bother me at all... but it does.

***

John stood by the doorway, watching me huff on the glass of the mirror and trace random shapes and swirls.

"If you want to talk..."

"Yeah," I said, saving him the effort. "Thanks."

He gave me half a smile and left. I returned my attentions to the silvery glass and let out a cry of shock. In the reflection of the bathroom, Ianto raised an eyebrow. I sank to the tiled floor, staring in horror and struggling for breath. John rushed back in to stand right where—

Gone.

"Jack?"

Hands on my hair, on my arms, pulling me upright. I didn't want to see John, my gaze wheeled as I tried to comprehend what had just happened.

"Jack, look at me," John said, his usually calm commanding tone cracking. "Jack! Jack, Jack, you need to look at me, love. Tell me what's wrong."

That brought me out of it. "Love?" I repeated mutely. Our eyes finally met and he saw the dull panic flaring in mine. "Make it stop," I whimpered, clutching at the arms around me. "Please make it stop."

Bewildered, John just held me. I was grateful for that.

***

Visions of the dead are never a good sign. You don't need to be a genius to work that out.

What do I do now, anyway? I've always thought myself a haunted man; you can't die a thousand times, a thousand different ways, without becoming a little dispossessed.

This is worse.

This is much worse.

God, Yan. Stay or go, just don't keep me in the dark like this. Not like this.

***

John had gone out, though he was loathe to leave me, I'd insisted. He needed some space as much as I did.

And right now I needed my gun. Damn that ever-thoughtful John, he'd seen this coming and hidden the blasted thing!

I hunted around the house, searched room after room and drawer after drawer till I came to John's room. My fingers paused on the door-handle, unsure of whether or not to breach the little sanctuary he'd made here.

No, I had to find that gun. I had to prove myself sane, and yes, I realise that sanity and suicide are hardly the best of bedfellows, but if Ianto truly was waiting for me...

I had to be sure. I had to find out.

***

He's doing it again. He's trying to make me choose. I don't _want_ to choose! Can't I just stay in the middle, in the in-between?

He retreats to his reflection and dies with mirrored eyes locked on mine. I don't want to choose, I don't want to let go...

God, Jack. How long do I stay in the dark, chasing after your shadow?

How long till it doesn't hurt anymore?

***

My non-eyes stared at Ianto's ghosted image, drinking in the sight of him before life could force me back.

"Why do you keep doing this?"

His voice. His wonderful voice. Bliss.

"To be with you," I told him. Wasn't it obvious?

"Not entirely obvious, Jack."

You can hear my thoughts?

What are words in this place of all places?

I chuckled. "True. But I think I prefer using my mouth."

The corners of his not-mouth twitched, almost forming the idea of a smile. "I'll bet." He came closer, eyes shadowed and weary. "You need to stop, Jack. You should... you should let go."

"I can see it in your face, Yan. You know I can't." I felt it then, tendrils of life energy nipping at my heels, burning my non-skin with their intensity. "I've missed you so—"

"You shouldn't try this again, Jack. It isn't right. You're only hurting yourself."

The truths warred in our minds: I couldn't let go, I didn't want to. He couldn't let go, _he_ didn't want to. But it had to be done.

Right?

Life force scorched me from the inside out. "Ianto—"

"I won't be here next time. Don't try it again."

"Ianto, I—"

"Love you, Jack."

His spectral tears flooded across my face as he kissed me, then life wrenched me once again from his arms.

"_Goodbye_."

Again, I woke gasping his name. John stared down at me, disapproval furrowing his features.

"That can't be healthy," he said, foot nudging the blood splattered gun.

I managed one true breath of laughter before the sobs took over, again. And yet again, John held me tight, held me close, kept me in one piece.

* * *

**Author note:** Thought you might like to see what I tweeted whilst writing this chapter...

_Okay. For the purposes of my story, I need to research into suicide by cutting your wrists... fun!_

5 minutes later:_ To quote Finding Nemo, good feeling's gone! Suicide methods thanks to Wikipedia... oh, the joys of the internet..._

17 minutes later:_ Oh god, the internet scares me._

1 minute later:_ I give up, I can't keep searching for painless ways for Jack to kill himself in the story. He's just going to have to find the gun._


	4. Starved Lips in the Gloam

**Chapter Four: Starved Lips in the Gloam **

I don't like to be alone. There has to be somebody else, even if it's someone who hates my guts.

John, trapped with me time loop. The Doctor and Rose chancing upon me, changing me for the better in the TARDIS. Ianto, the team and Torchwood.

This is me going full circle now. I only need Gray to come and kick me up the ass and I'll feel complete.

For a given value of complete, anyway.

***

"What is it with you and roofs?"

John leant against the chimney, picking at his teeth. I ignored him.

"I mean it was only after... you know, that you started doing it."

I was ignoring him, I was ignoring him...

"Jack, stay away from the edge would you? I didn't quite manage to secure all the guttering and—"

I just about heard John's faint "Bollocks, not again" as I plummeted to the ground.

***

He needs to see that I'm serious. That's why I can't be there. I can't stay with him in the darkness.

Maybe I'll watch from a distance: just to be sure.

***

Empty.

I was alone again with my death.

"Ianto?" I called with my non-mouth, hearing the not-echo in the endless space, knowing he wouldn't reply. "Ianto, please. Not like this."

Life dragged at my limbs, pulling me back and scorching me with the intensity of it all. I gasped, my throat hoarse as the flesh knitted itself together again. John glared down at me in a strange way.

I flexed my fingers gingerly, feeling the soft leather of the sofa underneath. That meant I was inside and indoors – John must have moved me. Maybe the neighbours would have taken fright at the sight of a mottled, broken body lying across the lawn...

Then I remembered that there weren't any neighbours.

Oh, John. Under all your anger and machismo, you still care.

"He— he's gone," I told his glaring eyes. "Ianto isn't there."

"Good! I'm fed up of bloodstains, do you have any idea how much _money _it cost to buy this furniture?"

I gave John about as level a stare as I could manage sprawled across the sofa.

"Do you have idea how _energy _it took to steal this furniture?"

I snorted. "Better."

"Jack, I don't think you should try again." He came to sit beside me, rearranging my stiff and uncooperative limbs so that there was space. "It isn't right," John continued. "You're only hurting yourself."

My brows furrowed. His words were almost a mirror of Ianto's, back in the dark space. Turning my head away from John's painfully compassionate expression, my eyes caught a flash reflected in the 3D television screen.

Ianto's mournful twist of lip was no better than John's. I shuddered.

"John, I'm going crazy."

At my words, Ianto gave a small, sad smile.

"Going?"

"Ha. Ha."

***

You know, it's one thing to hear voices...

_Be safe, Jack. Love you. Goodbye._

... it's another entirely to try and shout back.

Yet still I do. In my dreams and nightmares, I can't help but cry out for him. Am I being haunted, or am I haunting myself?

***

I walked into the living room a few days later only to stop and stare. "John?"

"Uh, yeah?" came a muffled voice.

I blinked. "What's going on?"

"Packing." He grunted, trying to squash his suitcase down. There's a point, I thought to myself, since when did John become a suitcase man?

"Can I ask why?"

He met my eyes then, a lidded stormy grey staring out with an intensity that caught me off guard. "We're going away, Jack."

News to me. "We are?"

"Yep." John stood up to kick the suitcase, admitting defeat. "Nice little vacation. Do us all some good."

"Isn't this like your vacation?" I asked. "The domesticity, the normality, the gingham?"

He laughed at me. "Come on, Jack. We need an adventure."

"Oh really?"

"Yes." John stared me down. I resisted the urge to back away. "Really." Walking over to where I stood, bewildered in the doorway, he said, "Cooped up was never good for us, Jack. It did damage, and you know it. We need to be out there!" John pointed to the badly plastered ceiling. "We need to be hitting the stars!"

I ignored the fact that his spiel seemed to be working, replying instead with what I hoped was an uninterested "How long are you planning this little vay-cay for?"

"Until we can find a star that'll hit back! Come _on_, Jackie. You know you're itching to be out there, you know you want to _taste_ it, you know you want to live it again."

I hate him. I hate him. Sweet merciful heavens, how did I ever last five years the the man?!

"It'll bring some meaning back, Jack. You could do with more of that."

Yeah, so I caved. "Let me go pack."

He seemed shocked. "What?"

"Didn't expect me to say yes?" I asked lightly.

John grinned. "Well, there was always a chance: it just seemed like a slim one at the time."

Surprising myself, I patted him on the shoulder and went off to pack up my things. I hadn't amassed all that much since John found me drowning my sorrows, and now even the Coat Ianto had loved so much was gone.

I packed the pinnacle of my meagre existence into a depressingly small satchel and then John and I left the safe haven I'd found in the tiny two-up, two-down house. Yet again I was exchanging comfort and security for danger and intrigue.

And I think I secretly hoped I could leave Ianto behind, too.

***

I'm like a lovesick puppy. It's kind of pathetic the way I follow after him like a lovesick puppy. I think I'd follow Jack to the ends of the Earth, and I have the horrible feeling that's exactly what will happen.

It isn't much fun in the dark space. I watch Jack interact with the world and get my kicks, never mind the hurt my non-presence inflicts on him. I'm trying to outlive my death through him and I don't even have the words to be sorry and actually mean it.

I can't seem to let go.

***

The cabin of the freighter was small and cramped. I couldn't help complaining. "Hit the stars, he said. Glitter of the galaxy, he said. What do I end up with? A foot in my ear."

"We could face the other way," said John, his voice drifting from somewhere around my ankles, "if you like."

He laughed at me when I shuddered.

"Am I that repulsive?"

I bent my head to see his expression. The wry smile plastered there made me say, "On occasions." When the smile turned into a grin I felt one of my own appearing in response.

"So, Jack," said John. "Enclosed space, trapped for weeks on end... Just like old times."

"Oh yeah," I said, not bothering to stifle my sarcasm. "I'm really getting that reminiscing vibe—hey!"

"Sorry."

I sniffed, saying, "I feel violated."

"Already? I didn't press that hard."

"Put a sock in it, John."

"Well, if you're asking..."

We scuffled for about half an hour. It was surprisingly innocent, by John's standards.

***

I don't want to admit it, but I'm having fun. I mean, you can't spend five years with a person and not make an impression. And that goes both ways.

Somewhere in my twisted mind, body and soul, John Hart has his place.

I just don't want to let that place become Ianto.

I don't want to replace him. Not yet.

***

A familiar tune snapped out of my reverie. I stared at John with some horror before coughing quite meaningfully. He gave me a confused look and said, "What?"

"Just..." I searched for the right sentiment. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"It's not our song."

"It _could_ be our song!"

"Not while I live and breathe."

"Fine. Let me get my gun out, we'll see what's our song then!"

***

I want to be there. I want to be the one so close to him that there is no choice but to mingle limb, breath and body.

I want that contact so hard it hurts.

The pain gains a sort of physicality and suddenly I am there and he can see me and feel me and we're together and the pain keens in my non-chest but it's worth it because he's there and I'm there and we're us again.

It's worth it.

* * *

**Author note: **All getting a bit trippy, isn't it? Cookie if you know the song and, as ever, reviews are love!


	5. On the Cold Hill's Side

**Chapter Five: On the Cold Hill's Side**

He's here, I can see him.

Ianto. Ianto. _Ianto_.

I pray to any Gods that might be listening that you're real.

***

"What the hell!" John tried to jump back. The fact that there was hardly any room in the cabin negated this action so he sprawled himself across the wall instead. "What the... the hell..." He trailed off then tried again. "Er, Jack?"

"See why I feel like I'm going mad?"

Ianto's ghost looked as shocked as we felt. His hand went out to mine and before I could see if they would touch, before I could know if he was really real and there, Ianto faded.

"Shit, Harkness. I had enough of hallucinations in the time loop, don't say this is a habit of yours."

"Not one I'm trying to keep, trust me." I sagged, burying my face in my hands.

"Yeesh."

"Uh-huh," I said, my voice muffled.

"Heavy shit."

"Uh-huh."

He turned away, rustling in his bag for something I couldn't see. Then he pulled out a very full bottle. "Drink?"

"God, yes please."

***

The dead are always trying to find ways back to the living, always trying to find that extra special way to cling on.

Jack's mine. I accept it.

I can't deny him any longer.

***

"Quite reading over my shoulder, John," I said, not glancing from my page. "There's no smut or pictures to colour in this one, you wouldn't like it."

"Never figured John Hart to be the colour-by-numbers type," came the reply. I stiffened. The book fell into my lap.

"Ianto?"

"Yes?"

I didn't know what to say. John had gone out to talk to the crew of the ship, he hadn't liked some of the noises the engine was making. You could call it being cautious or you could call it being nosy. I preferred both. We were talking about John after all.

"Hello," I said.

"Hi."

I _really_ didn't know what to say. "How've you been?"

"Jack." Oh God, his _voice_.

Through quivering lips I said, "Ianto."

I didn't feel his hand on my shoulder; there were no fingers tracing the skin of my neck, no soft caress to my side. These cravings were immaterial in the end. All those months where I had wanted nothing more than to have Ianto hold me, have someone hold me who knew how all the broken pieces of my heart and soul fitted together and it turned out I didn't need to be held. As long as Ianto was there – his presence enough to quell the empty ache in my chest.

A breath I didn't even realise I was holding rushed out of my lungs and I hiccoughed.

Ianto's arms came around me then, making me jump. I hadn't expected the contact yet revelled in it nevertheless.

"How?" I managed to whisper.

"Not entirely sure. Don't ask questions, I might disappear in a puff of logic."

I laughed, feeling the low sound reverberate through us both. Actually _feeling_.

"Feeling feels good," I murmured, lost in my thoughts. I half expected Ianto to quip at me, say some snide remark about how ridiculous my words were.

He didn't. Ianto just said, "I know what you mean."

He pressed a whisper kiss to the skin behind my earlobe. I couldn't bring myself to turn and face him though I wanted to so much it hurt. I drew in another ragged breath.

"Never easy, is it, cariad?"

"Nope."

"I'm here."

"I know."

"I'll always be here."

I stared at the rivets on the opposite wall. "Will you?"

"If you'll have me."

_Of course I will_, I wanted to say. The capsule door slid open, interrupting my grand speech.

"The hell?!" I heard John say from the doorway. His eyebrows couldn't have risen higher with a stepladder. I grinned at him and Ianto faded from sight with his lips at my ear, whispering promises and endearments.

"Hi John."

He stared at me.

"Everything alright with the ship?"

"With the ship? The ship's fine. Everything's just _hunky_-dory."

I tried an apologetic smile, not entirely sure of what to apologise for.

"I mean," continued John, "it's not like we've got ghosts sniffing around our arses day after day, is it? That would be crazy!"

"John, I—"

"Is eye-candy back from the dead?"

His bluntness shocked me, I must admit. "No," I said. "It's just we—"

"Good! That at least proves we haven't got Jesus or Hamlek bloody Glint on our hands."

I tilted my head. "You don't believe that ghost story, do you?"

"What? Jesus? Nah. Christianism never held much pull for me, however hard they tried to shove it down my throat during rehab."

"Rehabs," I corrected, a small smile tugging at my lips. "Plural."

***

I am in love with a ghost. A dead man who should have left me when he had the chance and yet stayed for the sake of my sanity and my heart, because he wanted to keep me whole.

He didn't want me to be alone.

Ianto Jones, I don't deserve you.

***

The fifth time Ianto made himself whole, it wasn't in front of me. The first thing I knew about it was when John rushed into the seating area of our latest shuttle, red-eyed and angry.

"I have had enough, Harkness," he said, flopping onto the large cushion next to me, glaring at the shelf above my head. "I've had bloody enough."

"Of?"

"Him."

I followed John's pointed finger to where Ianto stood, faint in the reflected light of the asteroid belt outside the ship. Ianto's expression was pained, and I could tell that because he _had_ no expression, just the quiet, calm facade that told me he was burning inside but wouldn't admit it outside.

If he even had an inside. If he even had an outside.

I tried to think. My head hurt.

"Ianto, could you—" I waved my hand a little. He seemed to understand and disappeared with a pleading slant to his features. "John, what's—"

"Ex-lovers is one thing," said John.

I waited for him to continue.

"But this is..."

I had to ask. I just _had_ to. "What did he say to you?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Sulking. How original. "John, stop that."

"Oh, you're allowed to mope but I'm not?" John pushed himself up, glowering down at me. "Double standards, that's very _Jack_."

We stayed like that for a long time, testing each other's gazes, seeing who would crack first.

"Will you leave?" I asked in a quiet voice.

John's hand come up slowly. I didn't move away, and he played with my hair a little, looking at me along the length of his arm.

"No," he said, "you won't get rid of me that easy. At least not again."

***

From one of Jack's tag-alongs to another, I had only wanted to talk to John Hart. Honest. It's not my fault his emotions are so apparent to me, and hardly down to me that he reacted the way he did.

Well, maybe it is, a little.

I'd only wanted to understand. I hadn't meant to dredge up the past, though, and there is hurt in John Hart's mind that goes far beyond Jack's treatment of him in the past. I'm almost sympathetic.

***

That night I dreamed of Earth. I had been away from what the rest of the galaxy called Sol 3 for over a year now and it was nice to see it again, even if I knew the blue sky and green plains were all in my head.

"Hey Jack."

Or maybe not.

I whirled, feet sliding on the wet grass. "Ianto." I took a proper look around, not recognising the land around me. I could hear the sea, it sounded peaceful, unaffected by emotion or human toil. "Where are we?"

"There's rain in the distance, and sheep over that hill. Think about it, Jack."

There was something in Ianto's eyes, some sense of peace and comfort, like the lulling of the waves I could not see.

"We're home," I said.

"We're home," he agreed, smiling.

Ianto had created this dreamscape for us: a place where we could _be_ that wasn't the darkness of death or the pain that hid behind John's now usual glare.

I spread out my greatcoat (which I was wearing to my surprise) on the damp grass and sat down, then leant back. Ianto came over and rested his head on my stomach. We listened to each other's breathing for some time.

"I miss this," I told him. He quirked an eyebrow.

"Since when did we ever do 'this'?"

"Well, I wanted to." I toyed with the hair on his head, lightly ruffling the dark brown strands. "Don't think I didn't want to."

"I wanted to, too," said Ianto, turning to look along my chest and meeting my wistful eyes.

All of a sudden I asked, "How real is this?"

"As real as you want it to be, Jack."

"Good," I said.

Then I kissed him.

I woke up in the bunk across from John, the Ianto's taste still playing on my lips, the pressure of his arms still clasped around me, and I sighed, content in a way I hadn't been for some time.

* * *

**Author note: **Hamlek Glint is a reference to the Doctor Who book _The Resurrection Casket_. (Which is fantastic, by the way.) and I'm also playing on mine and Rachel's theory about Jack and John and their past relationship, 'cause one of them left, and it sure as hell wouldn't have been John...

Also, if you have never been to South Wales, go. It's so pretty.


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